The Affliction
by Talishade
Summary: A mysterious affliction is spreading throughout the world like a plague. Murders have become increasingly common. A heinous cult threatens war.  The main suspects for the catastrophic events? The afflicted people themselves. ACCEPTING OCS BY PM.
1. Chapter 1

**Guess what? MouringShade and Tyltalis have started a collab! We will be taking OCs for it, but there are a couple rules. First, send the OC through PM. Second, only one OC per person...until maybe later on. **

**Disclaimer: We do not own Pokemon; we are only borrowing the franchise/characters for story use.**

X-X

_"Day of wrath, that day of burning,  
Seer and Sybil speak concerning,  
All the world to ashes turning_

_All aghast then Death shall shiver  
And great Nature's frame shall quiver,  
When the graves their dead deliver."  
_

xxxxxxx

_April 25, Year the Second_

I do not live in a world you would understand. It is made from broken wings and fear. It is cracked up the center. I will make it better. You don't understand. Their deaths make the air easier to breathe. If you could take away a toxin from your people, wouldn't you?

Wouldn't you?

xxxxxxx

_January 31, Year the First  
(Prologue to The Betrayal)_

The world turned and broke, green-blue shatters spiraling into space. In front of my eyes, a monster like no other. Death is far too good for him. It is a small service; humanity will thank me.

Soon.

xxxxxxx

_February 16, Year the First  
(The Betrayal and the Start of The War)_

Blood.

Blood and silence.

He is dead on the floor, his sick figure smashed against hardwood. I smile at the corpse and walk away, lithe red footsteps ink-stick-clicking against the floor. Blood in a bath, rhythm in red. I've let him slowly beat his way into oblivion.

Oh what horrors I've achieved.

Oh how happy I will be.

xxxxxxx

_February 17_

The office was empty. Getting in was a trick as easy as breathing. The blood has been cleaned up. The rug has been replaced. The papers have been burned. You would never know. It is beautiful. It is mine.

Paulo strides in, all shaky uncertainty. He knows who I am. He knows who used to own this place. Paulo is uncertain that I will let him live. Paulo was the man's favorite. The man is dead now and Paulo thinks he will be dead soon too. Maybe Paulo is right.

I laugh. Doesn't he know the way of business? The office will suit me fine. It is large and it reminds me of the reality of the world: you must kill before the universe kills you.

"Sir?" Paulo calls, his voice quivering like a captured angel. _Poor Paulo_.

"Sir, we all think you are _more_ than qualified to be our leader…but…but…should you be using this room? After all, he was an _Afflicted,_" he suggests, his disgust at the word razor-blade sharp, his body shivering with his distrust. He does not like being in here. An Afflicted died in here, his blood like leaves, tumbling red against the sun.

"Paulo," I say, laughing, rifling through what is now my desk, "What a silly superstition. We've long since learned how to clean up Afflicted blood. Don't be ridiculous." I smile at him, brushing my black hair from my eyes. He relaxes. He is safe, he thinks. I am not going it kill him. He smiles back, all crooked yellow teeth and nervous sycophancy.

The bullet runs silver through his head, and new blood explodes in a glorious firework. Red like rivers, running wonders over walls. The look on his face is so surprised, I almost feel pity. It was not Paulo's fault he was my old master's favorite. It was not his fault that Paulo was prone to rages and cruelty. It is not Paulo's fault that the Afflicted took half of his family. It was not his fault that he had become a twisted shell of a man.

It is an easy trick, stepping over his body. Pausing, I pull the slim device out of his pocket. It is an Afflicted device, meant to check the blood for the progression of the disease. Maybe Paulo has confiscated it from someone. Maybe he thought it would be fun to have one. Maybe he used it on himself. Poor Paulo. Soon everyone will know that he was Afflicted too. No one will question my actions. No one will question me ever again.

Closing the door behind me, I smile to the guard, throwing him the spoils of my crime.

How silly the man looks, fumbling with a heart.

xxxxxxx

_March 3, Year the First_

You open your eyes, staring at your shiny black shoes, feeling your blonde hair tumble in front of your eyes. The sky reflects your dress, a sick, wanting grey. Next to you, your pink suitcase leans on its charcoal wheels, waiting for movement. It is light and nearly empty. You have next to nothing, and most of what you do have you are leaving behind.

In your hand is a red and white ball, cold against your palm. You are staring at it when the long black car rolls up, all metal muscle. You slip the ball back into your pocket, hoping no one noticed the sheen that would betray your friend.

A man steps out, plump and red, dabbing at his bald head with a tattered dull orange handkerchief, panting as he waddles towards you. You know who it is, and you duck your head. Behind you is the stone steps back into your house. Back into your life. Back into the past.

He impatiently takes your suitcase, throwing it into the back seat, gesturing at the open door, wobbling back into the driver's seat. He turns over his shoulder, flashing you an uncertain smile, as if he remembered he was supposed to greet you.

"Jane," He begins, voice thick, smoky, "I'm so glad you called us." His voice falls into a whisper, and you think he smells like the ocean and sweat. You think you could put up with him. He seems almost nice. He is promising something better than death. The steps in front of your house are empty now. No one is there to see you off. The brown, towering building is equally as empty, all boarded windows and broken doors.

"Now then." He pants, as if your negligence in answering has put him off slightly, "To the orphanage, I guess." He is driving, then, taking you to where you will not be hunted, where you cannot be caught in an alley, where your body is safe from a sharp blade running against your neck. He is taking you away from the tattered remains of a happy life. He is taking away from bodies and blood.

You do not look back.

X-X

**Here is the OC Form. Only one OC each, and please send it through PM. Else we can't take your character and that would be sad. :(**

**Name: First and last.**

**Gender:**

**Age: 12-18, please.**

**Physical Features: This should include hair color/style/length, eye color, height, skin tone, body type and any distinctive qualities, such as scars or tattoos.**

**Clothing: The orphans have few possessions, and their clothing is probably donations/hand-me-downs. This doesn't mean they don't like a certain style, though. Maybe your character used her belt and some safety pins to make the ugly, overly large shirt into a pretty dress.**

**Affliction: An Affliction is basically a curse/power your character has. Don't make it too amazing like shapeshifting. You may have one affliction. Only one. Of course, we will decide on the negatives that come with it. You decide on the power...**

**Personality: Give at least seven sentences. It should reflect upon their Affliction as well. Most fire types are not going to be cool and free-flowing. Make sure to give at least two weaknesses – for example, a fear or an over-protective streak. And a talent other than an Affliction – writing, language, ect.**

**Family: Those that raised them, affected them. Even though they are alone now, at one point they had parents.**

**History: Include hometown and how they grew up. While the world is pretty dark, there must be some good memories as well. Include how they became **  
**Afflicted (the virus is transmittable through blood or tears. Children of the Afflicted have a more substantial immune response to the Affliction, so the exposure must be more than normal) and how they used to be before the Affliction.**

**Pokemon: This is rare because pokemon are thought to spread the disease. Not only that, but the orphanage likes to take things. Include the history of the pokemon, their moveset (up to four), and their personality. ****You may have up to three. No legendary, obviously, and a shiny pokemon is pretty much unheard of. No one-hit wonders, either. In three-level evolutions, the highest should be in its second evolution.**

**Other: Their favorite band, their favorite color, whatever.**

**Please remember we _cannot_ receive your character unless it is sent through a personal message. **

**Poem taken from Dies Irae by Abraham Coles  
**

**Thank you for reading.  
**


	2. Chapter 2

I look over the boy over with gleaming eyes. He is maybe ten, at the oldest, twelve. His throat is cut open; his blood abandoning him like his health had at the start of his Affliction. It is a traitor to its host. _And I do not blame it._

The others around me grin in satisfaction. We have saved the second person from the horror of the disease; the second Afflicted. Unfortunately, we are far off; thousands -and counting- remain. We are careful not to touch anyone at all. We are not so stupid as that. We are all well aware that the virus is spreadable through blood and tears. How symbolic. How poetic. How powerful.

But the virus cannot touch me. It watches me like an unobtainable prize; a jewel in a famous museum. Beautiful. Strong. Untouchable. Invulnerable.

I motion for the others to follow me. We will take over the world together, saving it from its poison. No, that's not right -we will _take _the world and mock its vulnerability.

xxxxxx

_Old._

_Desolate._

_Abandoned._

These three words sum up the buildings and atmosphere of this part of the city. Brick buildings are visible at every corner, looking as unloved as can be. The night is dark, and it only adds to the overall creepy feel. You stare down the building in front of you. This brick building is large enough. It looks as old, desolate and abandoned as the others, but emanates a sense of home.

"Jane," the driver of the cab says in a gentle voice, gesturing to the building. You advance to the front door, the overgrown weeds tickling your legs with every step you make. You are careful not to trip over them, but the darkness wraps you and makes you stumble. At last, you reach the door. It is old; the paint is nearly dissipated, giving the door an aged wooden look, but not the pretty kind. There is no door bell, of course, so you settle for knocking.

_Knock!_

_Knock!_

Your knocks sound almost hesitant. You worry about your first impression; you don't like being seen as one who can't make up your mind. The door looks down at you as if to intimidate you.

In the background, you hear the cab driving off. You know there is no turning back now. You can't tell if that upsets you or not.

You take a deep breath in and-

The door opens, revealing a young woman in her mid-teens. She flicks her teal hair to the side and glares at you like you shouldn't be here. It isn't an incredibly harsh glare, more like the kind of glare your mother would give you when you arrive home late. You decide you don't really like this woman. She unsettles you.

"M-my name's Jane, and-" Hesitation. You grunt in dissatisfaction of yourself.

"Save the introductions for later. Come inside." She says the phrase without making eye contact with you at all. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The young woman raises an eyebrow.

"Well? You coming in, or not?"

You flinch, but somehow you're able to convince yourself to step inside. As you enter, your shoes click on the tile floor. The young woman whirls around, shooting you another one of her glares.

"Take your shoes off," she snaps, "I just finished cleaning in here."

You don't even hesitate to do what she asked of you. Though the place isn't of the highest quality, what with the torn walls, old tile floor, and mismatching furniture, but it does appear pretty clean. You honor her request and proceed to unstrap your shoes.

She gestures to the closet and you nod. The shoes slip off rather easily after the strap is undone, and you nestle them in with the rest of the clothing, part of you flinching to leave behind even the smallest possession. You look at the young woman again and are surprised to see that she is making eye contact with you. She doesn't have to say a word for you to figure out she wants you to follow her up the stairs.

You pick up your suitcase, heavy from all the items inside it, and weakly drag it up the stairs. They creak under you, wooden and covered in peeling white paint, a threadbare red runner screaming up the center. You trudge upwards, dragging the suitcase behind you, wishing you had packed lighter. Finally, you reach the top. There is a long hall with multiple rooms to its sides.

"This is where the girls' dorms are. The boys' dorms are downstairs. Don't stay up too late; breakfast is served at eight, and if you don't come downstairs, you miss out. There's an empty room at the very end of the hall."

And without saying so much as a "good night," the young woman left you by yourself.

xxxxxx

It is a silly thing, this "Affliction." It will consume you faster than you know you have it. Isn't that funny? Isn't it funny that you have two whole weeks of not even knowing before it rips you into tiny, manageable pieces? I once had someone explain the virus to me. They were so worried, so, so worried that I might just leap up and tear their throat out if they made a mistake, if they left something out. Everyone does that to me. Everyone flinches from me. I might worry about it if it didn't instead please me. Authority is the fear of your followers.

The Affliction. It sounds so simple. It is a virus, he told me, it gets inside of you and kills you until it has enough room to coexist with all the other little fishies swimming around in your bloodstream. Those are the days of the Burning. Those are the days when your body turns on itself and tries to kill what's inside of you, and instead just kills you. Those are the weeks that you spend crying out in blind pain, asking for a reprieve. Asking for death. If your loved ones do not love you back, they will let you suffer through it, to see if you can fight it down. If you do, you are lucky. You deserve a prize for your efforts, and one is granted.

Abilities, the man said to me, powers that belong in pokemon, not in people. Your powers will not obey you. Your powers do not love you. Your powers are just more of the virus killing you sweetly. If you survive long enough to control them, people will already hate you because you will have most likely accidentally been the death of several people when your Affliction flared up in the middle of the market, or in your house, or on a train. And if you have not killed someone, you've probably infected them, weeping over their hands in the days of Burning. Out of ten people you infect, about seven will die, maybe eight. But you will infect more than that, because at this point, you are part of the parasite. You will infect anywhere from twenty to forty people before you've got everything under control. You will have caused more deaths than one person should. You are now a murderer.

But what of the children? I had asked my scientist, sharpening my blade and watching it reflect his wide pale eyes, Why do the children stay safe? Why are Afflicted offspring so...resilient?

He had been excited. That's just the thing, he had said, an Afflicted, once under control, can function as a normal member of society. They can have children, who they pass the antibodies on to. The children would catch the virus only if exposed to a serious measure of Afflicted blood, and they would only have two to four weeks of Burning instead of the normal three to eight. Not only that, he'd added excitedly, but their powers are stronger and are usually easier to control, less deadly. Think, he'd gasped, think of the possibilities! The blood of these children contained the salvation of the world!

I had laughed with his joyous cackle and told him he had two days to live, just to see what would happen. He had paled and begged for forgiveness, although he had done no wrong. I granted it to him, told him to spread word that I was nothing if merciful, and then had his wife killed by one of those darling Afflicted he was so obsessed with. It was so easy, so, so easy, getting him to convert to my ways.

He came to my master's company, shaking, and begged for an audience. He explained that he was going to go public with a story: one about how pokemon had been the start of the Affliction, that the Afflicted were terrible, twisted people, and that spilling their children's blood could save you. The seven that had ruled then had agreed slowly, and it was in this way that the war was begun, though not in earnest.

I was not born by the time the Affliction started, but by the time the scientist came forwards, I was young, small, slight boy with a sharp tongue. It has been five years since that day, the day the Affliction became a symbol of hatred instead of pity, and, sitting in my master's office, I wonder at the climb I have made, at the seed of distrust that has grown into a full-fledged war.

The scientist is dead now. That one was not my fault. Gluttony took him. Gluttony takes everything, for the nature of the sin is to consume.

My nature is to destroy.

xxxxxxx

The dorm room is large, wooden, strewn with rickety cots that are covered in splashes of garish color from donated quilts. The minute the door closes, everyone stares at you, waiting. "Uh, I...I'm Jane," you stumble, hoping that no one will hate you. There is a slow ripple of greeting, but the only person that really smiles at you is a girl with flowing blonde hair and kind green eyes.

"Hi!" she chirps, "I'm Carmen." She moves over to you and you are struck by the fact she is confined to a wheelchair. It doesn't appear to slow her down in anyway. She catches you looking and gives a helpless shrug. "The Burning made my bones brittle," she explains, "I'm always breaking something," she grins, and you wince for her, because you know what it's like to lose something to the Burning. You let the silence linger, wishing you had something witty to say. Carmen sends you a look like she knows what it's like to be the new girl and nods to an empty cot on the far left. "That one should be yours. It belonged to..." she cut herself off, tears shining on the edge of her eyes for just an instant. You duck your head and thank her, scurrying over. You know better than to rub salt in wounds, and you know full well that death is just another part of being Afflicted. Your days were numbered the minute you were born. But then, you think wryly, everyone's days are numbered.

You harass your suitcacse up onto the bed, fumbling it open, feeling all of the eyes in the room focus on your back. You slide out a blanket, the one your mother made for you. You smooth it out carefully over the white sheets, and you jump when someone says your name. You whirl around to discover it is the snappish matron from before, and for some reason you feel like cowering.

She holds out one hand stiffly. "I forgot," she says, and it sounds almost soft, "I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Jemeye," she says, pronouncing her name as if it was "Jimmy." She gives you a sort of barely-there smile, turns on her heel and marches away. She pauses at the door, calling, "Lights out in ten minutes," which is met with an asending sort of groan.

You curl up on your bed, looking at the room around you. It is both empty and full, somehow, filled with silent commiseration, empty of voices. Most girls just watch you, and you know what they are trying to do because you are trying to do it right back to them: you are trying to figure out their Affliction. The girl in the bed closest to yours gives you a tight smile when you meet her dark eyes. She has a block of wood in her hands that she is making marks in with her fingernails. You wonder if her Affliction has to deal with carpentry, but are distracted from the thought when the lights blink out around you. Apparently, lights out is serious business here.

As soon as you are plunged in darkness, the chatter begins. It is soft, but it is suddenly there. Most of it is not aimed at you, but it makes you feel more comfortable, though you wish you were in on it. The floorboards creak near you, and you look around, startled, wishing your eyes had adjusted to the darkness better. Someone puts a hand on you, and you jump.

_"Shh,_" the voice inside of your head breathes, "_It's just me._"

You know that voice, even though it sounds like you're hearing it through spiderwebs and fur. It is soft, scratchy, as if it was barely there. You know Carmen is holding back, and you think you know why. A mind is an easy thing to break, after all. "C-Carmen?" you call, uncertain, and the room hushes around you for an instant before the chatter speeds up, excited.

"_In the tradition of Broken Willow Orphanage, it is my pleasure to greet you,_" she says, and you can feel the smile through her thoughts. "_Normally, we'd ice you out for the _entire_ day, but since you got here late, it is your luck to only suffer silence for a full fifteen minutes,_" she notes, and then adds thoughtfully, "_Although, fifteen minutes was still pretty hard for us. Seriously, we're girls._"_  
_

You are so focused on the voice in your head, you almost don't hear the soft patter of footsteps, muted footsteps, the slow, deliberate creaking of someone trying to be quiet. They are surrounding you. You pull your knees to your chest, peering at the darkness, trying to make shapes out of nothingness. "_Dear Jane,_" Carmen says, and by now you have blinked the blackness into submission, "_To be accepted, you must complete your initiation as all of your sisters have done before you, and all of your sisters will do after you,_" she sings, her voice even more hushed. Around you, you see the rest of the girls joining hands with each other, each one connected to Carmen through another. You wonder if it works like electricity, but before you can contemplate the physics, Carmen is telling you, "_You have a brave mission, soldier. You must venture to the kitchen and retrieve us all cookies. We wish you luck, and hope that the cookies are chocolate chip,_" she states, and despite her authoritative tone, you feel her humor at the situation.

Slowly, you stand up, slinking to the door. The hallway's dim light peers at you. You have no idea where the kitchen is. No one, it seems, is going to tell you. Left, you decide, and turn that way, walking restlessly down the slim corridor. There are a few doors, but most of them are locked or lead to empty rooms. The hallway is a dead-end, but at least you've found out where the bathrooms are. As silently as possible, you sneak past the room again, grinning. It wasn't much torture for an initiation. You've heard stories that sounded far worse than grand theft cookie. The hallway to the right of your dorm has two options: either you can slip down all the way to the end, or take a right, past the stairs, and explore further. You decide to do both, and when all that happens is a few awkward moments where you've stumbled into someone's room, you head downstairs, glad you have taken off your shoes.

The mudroom is as you remember it: clean but small. The hallway to the left of the stairs is dark, but you don't let that stop you. A few doors are locked, but most are open, although none lead to the kitchen. You decide to take a left, following a tacky blue rug into a large dead-end, but at least, you think, you've found some more doors. Like that's going to help you.

Experimentally, you try one, and from the look on the boy's faces, you're probably in the wrong place. You gasp and quickly dart away, shutting the door behind you. Well, you think, at least I know where the boy's dorms are now. You retrace your steps, following the main hallway until you come upon a wide, empty doorframe that houses the kitchen. It is light yellow, with white cabinets and a loud refrigerator. This kitchen comes equipped with a boy, standing on a chair, his arm in a cabinet and his hand in the cookie jar.

"Hey," you laugh, "That's my job," and he jumps, surprised, almost falling off the chair with shock. He peers at you through the darkness, clamoring down, the jar snug against his body. He grins at you, and you think he is good-looking, although the light makes it hard to tell exactly what he looks like. He offers you the jar.

"Initiation?" he guesses, and you nod. He smiles as you take cookies, hoping that you have enough. "My name is Letters," he whispers, and you think his voice is smooth and wonderful. The cookies go into the pockets of your dress, and you begin to back away, smiling your thanks. He laughed, snowflakes in the air, commenting, "Usually this is where you tell me your name too."

"Jane," you reply, wishing your voice was smooth, coy like his. You sound young, even though he can't be more than a year older than you are. You slip away, blushing, padding upstairs and into the dorm, closing the door behind you and letting out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

"Cookies!" Carmen cries, and suddenly you are flocked by all sorts of expectant hands. You dole them out as quickly as possible, glad for the way people now talk to you instead of about you. "Mm," Carmen says through hers, "Sugar with sprinkles. A good omen, as it were," she laughs, and you hand over a cookie to the last hand. You search your pockets, finding only crumbs, dust, and a broken one of the questionable nature. You don't care. It slides into your mouth anyway, and you think it's the best thing you've ever tasted because it tastes like victory.

"Now, also in the tradition of Broken Willow orphanage," she grins, "I get to tell a ghost story!" With that, the girls suddenly flock to her as if she was a force of gravity. She pulls herself out of the chair and slips onto her bed, carefully crossing her legs and grinning widely. Around her, everyone takes their favorite positions: on the floor, on the opposite bed, leaning against the wall. You have been somehow placed right in front of her, sitting on someone's bed and staring into her green eyes. Her voice is soft, sweet, and the story she tells is one you know.

But there is something enthralling about history, and you are sucked in.

xxxxxxxx

Carmen's story goes like this: Twenty years ago, before the coming of the great Seven or AFTERSHOCK, people and pokemon lived in peace. It had been this way for a thousand years, and a thousand years before that. Our people did not hate each other, did not attack each other. We used our pokemon as pets, as companions. We did not kill them as we do now, but that is because we had no knowledge of the virus and what it could do to us, how it could destroy us.

One day, twenty years ago, a man made his living by breeding livestock. But business was slow, and the man was greedy. He began to play with the hormones in the food, toying with the very nature of life itself. He succeeded only in killing half of his stock, and the other half were too sickly to sell. Only those that were pregnant were in good shape, as if the hormones had not effected them. But each of them died in his arms, bleeding out after giving birth. The offspring were mostly stillborn, but one remained, a Ponyta named Heather. She was strong, furious, more powerful than a newborn ought to be. The man loved Heather very much, because she was the last thing he had left, and, not knowing what he was doing, he let her out into the wild lest he do her any harm. He did not know he had created a virus. He did not know that Heather would spread this virus to many, many pokemon, who would, in turn, spread it to all the others.

The man, for two weeks, was healthy although poor. After those two weeks, he began what we now know as the Burning days. The Burning, they say, was proof the angels had not forgiven the man's sin. His wife did everything she could for him, for she loved him very much, but he died in her arms. The woman began to cry, and she could not stop. Everywhere she went, her tears would fall like feathers. She went into the world to find Heather, knowing that her husband would have wanted the Pontya to be safe. She walked and walked and walked, crying for her love, until the angel of harvest and nature, Shaymin, looked down on her with pity. He knew her misery would lead to nothing good, so out of the kindness in his heart, he spoke to the other angels, asking for help. Together, they turned her into a large willow tree, binding her to the earth so her wandering could spread no more tears. But her sorrow was so powerful that it broke through the strong bark, splitting the tree so that all might hear the widow's cries. Ever since, the symbol of the broken willow has meant loyalty, love undying, and perseverance from hardship. We use it as the name of our orphanage so that Shaymin and the other angels will look down on us favorably.

But the widow's tears had done more harm than she was aware. For each tear that hit the ground, a person made of mud and sickness sprang to life. Each would hunt down a pokemon, inhabit it, and use the body to infect people with the virus. Soon the Affliction spread, leaving few survivors. Those that survived were praised for their new witchly powers, but we now know what damage the Afflictions do, how much they can leave someone incapacitated. At first, the survivors of the Affliction were heroes, but the Affliction rots the brain as well as the body, and the powers it gives rots society. Afflicted were not controlled, and they began to destroy civilization. For a long while, chaos reigned.

Five years ago, which we now know was Five Before Year the First, a new company rose out of the ashes of a hospital. They began housing the Afflicted, quarantining them, providing for them. They rehabilitated the crazed Afflicted, turning them into people again, making use of their powers. They helped the normal people too, those that had lost their families and jobs to the Afflicted. The company was called AFTERSHOCK, and they saved many, many people. They were led by the great Seven, seven people who dedicated their lives to furthering science, furthering lives, rebuilding society.

AFTERSHOCK has done a great many things for the Afflicted, but it has done more for the normal people. They have learned how to clean up Afflicted blood, how to ensure safety through the Burning and the power trials that follow, how to protect against the virus. They showed us the evils of pokemon and began the slaughter of those vile creatures. They showed us the evils of our politicians and began the slaughter of those sick creatures. They showed us the evils of the Afflicted and began the slow slaughter of those terrible, terrible killers.

There is a light, they said, a light in the Afflicted's offspring. The blood of their children holds the key to survival. It was not safe, during that time. It was not safe at all. Many children died, and the great Seven saw the way the media had warped the knowledge. They banned the media, calling them liars and villains. They built orphanages that promised the sanctuary of the children, they issued laws that forbid spilling the blood of an Afflicted's child. They did the best they could to protect us, for we are the future. They demanded little in return. We owe our lives to AFTERSHOCK and the great Seven. All of us, Afflicted and normal alike.

This year is Year the First. The great Seven have promised a change like we have never seen.

I have never been so afraid.


	3. Chapter 3

Hope is such an ugly thing. It beats its silver wings against ribcages, staccato remembering of flannel shirts, summertime lovers, one more sunrise. But how soon it sickens, its little yellow eyes burning like the darkness: sugar turning dusky caramel from the inside out. Hope is all rusty feathers and iron tails. Hope is too pretty to look at. Hope is a monster. Hope is the knowledge that in one more year, the man who is the end of all things to you will be dead. Hope is the knowledge that you could kill him. Hope is the pondering of your future. Hope is the way you stand up to his swift cruelty. Hope is clanging in your ears every day, ding-dong tick-tock, a fierce clatter against your chest, rising up like froth.

And we kill it so quickly, hope. It dies so sweetly in our palms, cupped in fingers just dying to feel love. How easy it is to stifle that scissor-cut heart beat, slice slice sli- The World Will Never Love Me.

Tremble, hope, tremble. Soon you will quick dissolve.

I am so alone.

xxxxxxx

Her hair is the color of wind, music through the ears, a jarred letter on a handwritten love note, the quivering before a song, the feeling of flying. Her eyes are all that friendly loneliness, where you smile and know nothing but the separation between lost lovers. She is selfish, and in another life, she would have demanded the world and she would have received it. She is weak, but she fights with a stupor of breakneck power. Don't you wish you were her? She twinkles with glittering light and talent that she flaunts, unknowing.

You would know, if you were her, what it is like to hum with a friendly confidence, with the certainty that you will be the overtaker. She is only ever overtaken. She is only empty. She is only a grey house and black silk tights; she is only ever what you wish her into being. She is the stars. She is the rain. She is the ivy.

She is running down an alley, her hair (wind rain music) streaking out behind her, ribboning in the force of her movement. She is panting, and her bare feet are bleeding. Behind her is a force she cannot contest with: it is man. It is an Afflicted. And she is Better Than That. He is cackling like a candle. He wants her blood because he wants the legend, the safety, the cure.

"Do you think you can run?" he asks her, and it echoes in her head. Do you? Do you? Do – No. She does not think she can, but she is running still, over the crooked cobblestones, past the grey walls, past the grey trashcans, past the yellow lines of police tape where the Afflicted houses have been marked off.

His Affliction sounds like bones, but it makes instead a spreading warmth. Her shadow splits into splinters. His Affliction smells like Evensong, the midwinter celebration of the three weather angels, it smells like laughing over a cup of hot chocolate, it smells like her father's favorite armchair, it smells like ashes. It smells like her skin burning, because it is.

"I will get you, halfie bitch," he screams, and it throws itself into her ears like daggers. Oh, she thinks, I wonder if I will make it home in time for dinner. She wonders if she should be feeling pain, but instead she just crackles with energy from nowhere. She knows that when the adrenalin wears off, she'll hurt, but she just accepts this and pushes off the ground, her fingers scrabbling for purchase against a rattling chain link fence. She wonders if this will be the end, because the peak is too far away, too far away.

She pauses at the top to look at him, at the spattering of fire down the alley, at his charred face, his grim smile. His anger, burning at his fingertips. The Affliction, she sees, has taken his sight, his skin, his hair. He is one of the dirty ones. He has oil in his veins. Of course, she thinks, tossing her body to the ground, she is dirty too. Halfie bitch, halfie bitch, it rings in her head like music.

She stumbles to her feet again, and from the way they ache, she has about two minutes left before she starts to really feel it. Her soles hit the tarmac to the sound of jump-rope rhymes in her head.

_Mommy's got a dead man sitting in her bed, how many days 'til he rips off her head? One for the blood, two for the tears, three for the little girl that mommy has to rear. _

_Halfie's got the oil blood, halfie's got the dirt, halfie's momma let a man soil up her skirt. Halfie's got no powers, halfie's got no dad, halfie's just a little one, but half is twice as bad. _

_A-F-T, T-E-R, when the world is covered in tar; S-C-H, O-C-K, AFTERSHOCK will save the day. One great Seven for the each of us, each one fighting for our trust. Virtues like a spilt-bark tree, can you name them faster than me? Chastity, Temperance, Charity, Diligence, Patience, Kindness, Humility._

That is enough. She knows better than to recite the great Seven, even in her head. The man behind her makes her think of burning hair and a time when she could step out into the light and not be spat at. Before she knew the truth of her parentage. Before she was named halfie scum, halfie bitch, poor little half-blood child, be glad you're alive at least, be glad daddy's last gift was your sick little Afflicted blood, be glad we still tolerate you, little half-blood, half-heart, half-way to ruin.

She is ruined, always. Always.

xxxxxxx

You wake up, although you don't remember falling asleep. There is a girl, next to you, her eyes wide and her hair dark. She smiles as you react, her nose over the side of your bed, her lean fingers digging into the mattress. She grins and you mirror the expression without thinking. She reaches over and tugs your hair gently and you laugh, rolling out of bed and sliding into your shoes.

A boy with the name Letters swims in your head. Your home swims in front of your eyes. Your father, your family, your life.

Then you blink, and it is gone.

xxxxxxx

To name something is to own it.

Love, love, love, love. Do you hear me, love? Do you hear me calling you?

There is no surprise in the futility of my actions.

xxxxxxx

He is standing over her, and all she can think is, At least I'm not the only one panting. His teeth are yellow and black like his skin. His eyes are the color of fall. What do you do when you turn on a light? she wonders, watching as he clumsily flips out a blade, Do you set the darkness burning? He smells like ashes and her fireplace. He smells like the holidays and she thinks, How nice.

The blade is silver. The blade is gold. The blade, she knows, is tarnished and dull, and it will hurt. It will hurt like the way the pain is spreading now, from her raw legs to her burned arms. She thinks that if she was going to kill someone, she'd provide them the privilege of a sharp blade at the very least. The puddle under her is seeping up through her fingers, and it feels like oil, it feels like ink. The wall behind her back is cold like the ground, cold and wonderful because it soothes her just like that, just like that. She thinks that if she was going to kill someone, now would be the time, because he takes a breath and puts the edge against her neck and her lungs suddenly forget how to expand.

Did you know, she wants to tell him, That to access the carotid artery, one must slice dangerously close to the windpipe? That the vocal chords and trachea are put at extreme risk?

She is in danger, and suddenly she recognizes this. She recognizes and thinks, Oh shit, mom's gonna kill me, and then she realizes that she'll be dead by the time her mom notices she's not home for dinner.

Bye bye, mommy. Little halfie whore has been killed by an oil blood.

xxxxxxx

The sun's rays are blinding. They torment the comforting darkness that is the aftermath of your sleep. You struggle against your eyelids to open them. Almost there -failed. You hear something calling in the distance, helping you in the struggle. It is a soft, kind voice.

"...Ja..ne!...ime...for...reakfast!...ake...up..."

You push ever harder. How could something as weak as eyelids be so difficult to fight against?

_Push...push...push..._

Snap!

All of a sudden, before you realize what has happened, you're sitting up on the couch, the victim of many children's stares. You're still in that trance, the kind which you are questioning your very existence. Are you alive? Why are you here? What happened to you? Where are you? You forcefully shake yourself out of this trance -for the second time. It works. Flashes of several images surge throughout your brain: what happened yesterday- a car ride, murder, orphanage, the boy called Letters. Your 'father' was murdered. And you hardly cared. _Why?_

You snap yourself out of that train of thought and ponder about what _really_ matters at this very moment: How the hell did you get on the couch?

"Jane, about time you're awake! I see you slept in a bit more on the couch. Too lazy to go back upstairs?" Carmen quietly giggles. You shrug. It is very typical of you to wake up very early and go back to bed, usually on the couch. However, you never remember what you do during that span of time you're awake. Ever.

Just as you attempt to remember what went on, your head begins to hurt.

xxxxxxx

"Sir, we have another one."

"Another murder?"

Such simple creatures they are. Can they not see the extravagance of a man stabbed to death with mere pins, blood pouring out of his throat in harmony with its knife? It is very delicate work. Death brings out the beauty in things. When something is dead, you truly begin to appreciate it. We humans have proven it with our funerals. Funerals are a time to truly appreciate the beauty of death... the appreciation of life.

"This one has to be the worst yet. This guy, whoever he is...is a true monster."

So stupid and simple minded. They cannot grasp the beauty of my work. The blood, the status of death. Blood, pins...and music! I make such a brilliant work, and they dare criticize me and deem me a _monster?_

They say that in order to appreciate something, you must become it.

And it would be an honor for me to turn them into my beautiful works. I chuckle from afar. They will truly be my best works yet.

xxxxxxx

The Affliction. Such a phenomenon, it is. Where does it originate from? Is it a blessing, or a curse? A plague, or a miracle? Scientists are still studying it to this day, but know nearly nothing about it. They've barely scratched the surface of my lovely virus. Those humans, they have been told so many times. Warned so many times. Yet they still yearn for more. Yearn for more _power_. Little do the darling dears know that the very thing they seek will kill them from the inside. For no human is built to contain this much power within their bodies throughout their life.

But now, they will truly see:

The closer you rise to the sun, the faster your wings burn and the quicker you tumble.

xxxxxxx

_"Oh blade you'll warm tonight! _

_Awash in crimson-purple flows, _

_Your sheen will dull with aching flesh: _

_Palpating anatomic mounds _

_Caressing, dancing, writhing round _

_Y__our metal form, _

_Whetted 'gainst a lonely bone, _

_Then to probe the pounding, begging heart."_


End file.
